Shape of Anticipation

There are a few little things
I notice when you're sleeping
One, I see a pull toward warmth, a closing
Two, I see a twitch, a tic, a stir, a stop
Three, I see stillness
I'm asleep myself before there can be four

Instead of running away or taking away
Let's call it something else
Like making songs or raking leaves
Or writing histories
Big things up close
Small things from far away

In the moment before
We speak of belonging
Or the moment after
We speak it again
I hear in the exhalation
A sweet anticipation
If I had to guess its color
I'd say orange
If I had to guess its shape
I'd say a bendy line
Two sides meeting, closing
Into a barely open eye
If I had to pick a place
I'd want to see that orange shape
It would be a finger length above
The smaller of the two big planes

February 28, 2007

May Not Have Been An Oak

the kindness you think is free
is broken glass to me
stained but shiny still
the kindness won’t, history will
the tree that stood forlorn
may not have been an oak
the words were not heartfelt
the poem was a joke

the cherry hair you pull
in strands from your white sink
glistens and meanders
its death a dollar drink
I will pull along for you
until the first desert day
when we reach the mystic spot
I will pull and turn away

the picture frames you build
from clear glue and trees killed
have grown weary with age
old wood, decline, rage
two spirits, deserted in a bleak sun
screaming “I’m the only one!”
but one of you is wrong
the older sister, all along

you tumble, gravely, to the soil
and listen to the dead ones
gravity is the enemy
the fallen freaks the poet shuns
and I know your eye shape
changes with each day
but that will mean little
when the loved one is away

April 20, 1998

Your First Time

the sky you saw the first time
you came to Chicago, a child almost
is a brittle sky, a breakable one
tell me all you know
about why you are this way
was it what you were given
when you landed in O’Hare
with a ribbon in your hair
and a suitcase full of summer clothes
even though
it was November

the first time you were young
you made a hopeful gesture
you thought you could handle
both spirituality and mayhem
you almost pulled it off
it almost came alive your hands
you’re so polite

but this city, this Chicago, is different now
from your first time, there are movements now
in neighborhoods, all over town
movements to make changes
small revolutions
international city

but, it’s not your Los Angeles
no place is as vital
in the way it moves
both for peace
and distance
cynics forget that distance makes the dust
irrelevant
distance makes the day seem a proud thing

April 16, 1998

Technology Drive

for the pleasure of your regrets
I will claim the system
has a root in the dead ground
of Technology Drive
when we were alive
it was all too good
it was all we wanted anyway

for the pleasure of your regrets
I will deem you weak
I will make your noise
turn inward on its late lost self
it was a different kind of home
leave my monkey alone

April 15, 1998

I See the White House

I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
this angle, it’s a new one
the sun is bright, the sky is brilliant
the blue looks like it’s made of tin
and you as high as tusks of elephants
and you as low as limbo down
and you as warm as bread and flowers
we washed our hands of you
we washed because our hands were washed of you
I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
the crowds have come to hear us
the claws of indignity are out and we have nothing
you think because I called out, I have a plan to carry through
but folks like me, we call out, we have no plan, we have no secrets
no secrets like some men do
I see the shambles of your roaring years ahead of us
you fell with trumpets blaring nothing good and nothing new
your shiny ways, your paste and cardboard, you should see it now
but you’re alone, asleep in gardens
asleep alone, you’ll wake tomorrow
I see the white house, I’m hard of hearing
goodbye to all that, sometimes it’s the truth

September 28, 1999

From Somewhere

Once not enough, too much
Light and wrath and comprehension
The thin line of dissension
The colors of the artifact
Its diagram pulse, the ratcheted rush
A call to weak arms, a warning
That marking the walls
With words like tragedy
Is a mistake
Unless you mean it

The carpenter ant’s problem, it seems
Stemmed from the moments
In between its pulses, its beats and fake movement
It was over
Before it felt it

The dynamic inside
The room caved me in
It trucked my intentions
Over the highway, over the country
Until the dam stood
Threatening to break

The thin line of resolute dissension
Breaks when spoken to
Speaks when broken through
But loud is good in silent springs
When cats and dogs and goats grow wings
To warn of
The end of time
The look of love
The book of days, a round world
Of emeralds, stars, and oil
But then, who knew?

The third page of the book
Breathed enemies into fire
And sold amateurs the secrets
Solutions for the last revolution we would know
But lifetimes
Roll over
And nothing dies, nothing is the last thing
Just the first thing or the worst thing

They called the rookies over
And read a list of grave mistakes
Heads nodded, throats cleared
Spires gleamed, truckers trucked

So the room, the party, got crowded
Breaths met breaths, cookies crumbled
Drinks were celebrated with clinking plastic
It was a beautiful moment
Until the mood changed
When the man in white mentioned
That the women in black
Looked like she was
From somewhere

Twice seems right
The second time for ruing
The first time’s regrets

October 12, 2003

The Fiercest Horse

I am the fiercest
of the dull horses, their sparkle
tainted by years
aristocratic years
of harsh words
savage, arthritic meditations
ones without vowels, no pauses
allowed
the guttural shaming of a language
has ominously
arrived

you are the one horse
respected but derided
because of your shocking
cover up, the courage felt
is heartrending
but meaningless to riders
imprisoned
by the shame of a language

I am the fiercest
of the free horses
run to valleys, forget
what makes you run
your weakness real
your hatred strong
but I am more fierce
it is a bell that sounds
eternally

September 29, 1997

The Only Two Poems I Wrote Between July 19 and August 20, 1998 (an otherwise incredibly prolific year for me, poetically)

Trouble

and it’s those desires, the ones that get you into trouble
that you need to be wary of
no point in discovering
that you are weaker than you know

or

there is nothing to be wary of
no need to hesitate
jump in, swim around, and soak in the colors

or

sleep in
dream it out
dream the trouble out
until you’re weak from squirming


The Youngest Spinster

today, black, yesterday, bandages, tomorrow, not to be known, I am only guessing here
powder, insulated, skin to breaking skin, color it all in, covet its only sister

flowers growing on her legs
flowers growing on her legs
flowers growing, with a flourish, on her legs

she dances like a writer and that’s a compliment

the color wheel she pretends isn’t part of her clothes breaks, leaving only black and flowers (gray) and skin (hers) and not a spot of green, not today

Palminteri

His is the celebrity
Taken less seriously
Than the old sincerity
He’s a man, he’s a boy, he’s “what the hell is this?”

His is the restriction
Of blood to the heart
Bushy haired and bloated
Like his father, like his son
Like the shrill of his voice when he’s angry

His is the arc of light
Descending upon our valley
Its mountains and pointy trees spotting our sight
Boulevard warehouses, boxes on wheels
A new generation, it’s time to change formats

He cries to his mother on the phone
“they promise me nothing these days”
His mother says “Charlie, I told you this years ago –
Bastards underestimate beauty”

He remembers altitude
He remembers hell
He remembers pentagons of trees
He remember garlands
‘round necks of Girl Scouts
Sadly
There’s nothing to do about that
But slam shut the memory trap

He scampers down his driveway in his billowy robe
Says “where’s my goddamn paper?” To the sticky sky
The sticky sky disgusts him, so he runs back inside
Says “coffee for me” to himself, as his runners sleep late

His is the prescription
Of numbers encoded
Of meetings in mornings
With agents of his own decline
‘til they finally get it right
One day in the bulk canyon light

His is the celebrity
Taken like parody
Given like sanctity
To the women, once scouts, now old like him

His is the celebrity
Of hockey shirt Saturdays at work
Sandals on sand, a fake gun in his hand
The dolly jitters, to suggest tension
As he says to the bleached woman in black
“Can’t I use my prescription sunglasses?”
She looks away
And defers to a higher power

His is the celebration
Of what he sees there
On the folding table, uneven on the beach
As the sun shrugs its shoulders and slumps for the night
And the men with cargo pants pack up the machinery
He looks to both sides before wrapping
The blotched Thin Mints in his handkerchief
He looks again and then pockets his prize
Thinking “they can fuck me, they can fuck me, they can fuck me."

2002

Wrists

Wrists
Are resilient
The neck is a blank slate
The street where you live
Is quiet enough
To get caught
But loud enough
For a squeal like that
To go unnoticed
The night
Is still young
The day
Is still dead
Sunday goes to Wednesday
Like
THAT
And then the sleeping is
Good, the dreams and interruptions
Are serious and fun
All at the same
Time
And in between there's a tap on the shoulder
A twist of the arm
Look up, into my eyes
There it is
No
Don't look away, not like that
Because if you do, remember
Wrists are resilient but it still
Hurts and blank slates get filled
And nothing's too loud
With the music turned up
Like this
There's no such thing
As a quiet kiss

Axl Stole My Braids

In 2003, Offspring lead singer Dexter Holland vowed to steal Axl Rose's proposed title of the new Guns 'N Roses - Chinese Democracy - for his own band's next album. Holland was quoted in the Los Angeles times as saying "Axl stole my braids so I stole his album title." Immediately upon reading this, I wrote the following poem:


Dexter makes his grand entrance
To the House on the Rock
He says "Is this place for real?"
The tour guide tells a story
Of a man with a wife and a fetish
But all Dexter can think is
"Axl stole my braids"

Dexter remembers his mother's reminder
That milk is for cookies and cookies for girls
"But Mom it doesn't matter
Because rock and roll lives on
And shadows make the sun
I don't blame the victim but
Axl stole my braids"

The next day Dexter visits John Ashcroft
And asks him what he thinks
About the future of punk
Ashcroft says "No good punk"
Dexter says "You're right
But did you see, did you hear, did you know
While you were rounding up immigrants
Like in my most famous song
While you were pissing on the constitution
Like in my second most famous song
While you were bemoaning that Carnahan's plane went down
Costing you the election
Axl stole my braids"

Then, a knock on the door
The man from the House on the Rock says
"Frank Lloyd Wright never built his own grave
Doesn't that make you gentleman think?"
Ashcroft runs into traffic
Dexter says "See you in hell, motherfucking patrician!"
Stephen Malkmus appears on the scene, wincing
"Did someone call my name?"
Dexter thinks "Shit, these guys out-talent me
But they'll never outwork me
Axl stole my braids"

On the plane back to John Wayne
Don Henley introduces himself
Dexter says "Eagle, I remember when
You signed your letters to the editor
With three cities after your name"
Henley adjusts his toupee and says
"Ah yes. Santa Monica, Santa Fe,
And I don't remember the third"
"Aspen and Axl stole my braids"

Back home, Dexter takes a day trip
To go see the master, Lindsey Buckingham
Over stale Turkish coffee, Lindsey says
"Man, you had some hooks
But you got stuck in all that rage"
Dexter laughs
Lindsey says "It's not that funny"
Dexter says "Isn't it?"
Lindsey shakes his head, sending spirals of stringy hair
Into what's left of Dexter's Turkish
Dexter cries, runs out of the compound
Into the Malibu half-dusk
He screams, to the coyotes
To the mountain lions
To the heathens and the architects
"Axl!
Stole!
My!
Braids!"

(postscript: The Offspring, perhaps reacting to Rose's cease-and-desist order called their next album Splinter. Guns N Roses' Chinese Democracy has never been released)